


Mercy (or the Lack Thereof)

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angel/Demon AU, Gen, Nygmobblepot Week 2017, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:03:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: His name is Ásvaldr, and he is, in all aspects, a minor demon: small in stature, low in status, mediocre in power, and unremarkable in sin: he had fallen from heaven for that most prosaic of temptations, the thirst for power.But there is something that sets him apart from other demons.  Something so extraordinary that it allows him to escape the endless War and travel to Earth, where his talents for manipulation will bring him power and wealth...and allow him to meet the most unexpected of Earthbound Angels.





	Mercy (or the Lack Thereof)

The war betwixt heaven and hell raged for more than three millennia. 

So all-encompassing was the conflict that both sides had, on the whole, long forgotten their destined roles saving or tempting mankind (depending); instead, angels and demons pitched battles that lasted centuries and ended in the inevitable stalemate brought on by immortal, invulnerable beings at war. 

For a great many minor beings of the celestial plains (both sides), the war was ultimately very...boring. There are only so many centuries you can dedicate to fighting the same boring immortal people you’ve known since creation before it all becomes a bit wearing. But demons must assault the heavens, and angels must defend them, so both sides daily shone their armor and flew in their superior’s wake to the latest field of battle.

All, that is, save one minor demon.

His name was Ásvaldr, and he was a minor demon in every sense: small in stature, low in status, mediocre in power, and unremarkable in sin: he had fallen from heaven for that most prosaic of temptations, the thirst for power. Ásvaldrs were, in modern parlance, a dime a dozen among hell’s fallen legions.

But there was more to Ásvaldr than his superiors (or indeed, he himself) realized. At some point, possibly in the human’s Age of Enlightenment, and despite cosmic impossibility, Ásvaldr had developed free will. 

True, interesting, I-do-what-I-want-when-I-want, capital letters, only for the humans Free Will.

It had taken Ásvaldr perhaps two centuries to fully realize his own unexpected potential (which he did by refusing to get out of bed one morning, only to wake up several hours later, well-rested and utterly astonished). Very nearly the moment he did, Ásvaldr abandoned the realm of the Immortals and popped down to Earth: scenic home of the Lord’s favorite creations - humanity.

Ásvaldr remembered humans. Oh, yes. In those early days after the Fall but before the War, he had found them delightfully entertaining to frighten and manipulate. Their vaulted free will and chance for redemption (or, more interestingly, damnation) adding a splash of challenge that appealed to him.

The War was boring. Humans were fun.

Of course, there was a certain shock when, upon his arrival, the air was foul and there were new languages everywhere and the countries had all changed and the slow witted Europeans had finally realized there was a huge continent on the other side of the world and proceeded to decide they owned it (as Europeans were wont to do). But Ásvaldr had always been keenly intelligent, and he adapted well. Only fifty-eight years after his arrival on Earth, Ásvaldr entered society in that most fascinating and corrupt of cities: Gotham.

And only four years after that, Oswald Copplepot wavered on a roof barricade and crowed his victory into the fetid night sky.

\----

Ásvaldr may have owned Gotham, but he still liked to get his hands dirty from time to time. No reason to forget where he came from - or let anyone else forget exactly what he was capable of. Murder didn’t bother him. Far from it. The very lust for power that threw him from the heavens also gave him a heady rush each time he held a human’s life in his hands. So pitiful and mortal, these delicate beings. So desperate to live that they would beg and promise him anything.

So easy to kill, and send to their rest until the final judgment. 

The fear and respect in his underling’s eyes (more fear than respect, but it was coming) was merely an excellent bonus. He was not a great fan of keeping minions in line one by one.

It was while he was finishing one such...discussion...with a now former member of the GCPD who had decided to renege on his arrangement with Ásvaldr and his organization, that he met the being who would change his entire life. It was the middle of the night, in a disused old room off the GCPD’s central station that had been locked up for years, and his victim - a very unlikable fellow named Tom Dougherty - was well into the begging for mercy part of the evening (always so very amusing, as the Fall of course removed all traces of proper Mercy from demons) when the far door screeched open on the very rusted hinges two of his random minions had nearly had to rip out of the wall for entry.

Ásvaldr lifted his head.

He knew immediately what the being in the doorway was. 

The idiots with him, of course, saw nothing. But Ásvaldr knew the aura of light far too well, the faint outline of shining wings.

 _An angel_ , he thought, half intrigued and half disgusted by millennia of memories. _On Earth?_

The angel froze, his dark eyes wide. 

And Ásvaldr smiled.

“What are you doing here?” the angel asked, not at all the proper command for an angel, but more a stuttering question. “These rooms are closed off-” 

“Just working,” Ásvaldr answered, lowering his voice into a dangerous purr. “This is no concern of yours, Angel.”

“Boss,” Gabe hissed. “Boss, the badge, he _works_ here!”

Ásvaldr’s pale eyes flickered down. It was hard to see around the damned light, but he could make out the outline of a lab coat. “Impossible,” he said.

The angel reached up and straightened his-were those _glasses_? What a ridiculous affectation. Angels could no more have failing eyesight than demons could be hard of hearing. “He’s correct...ah...actually. I _do_ work here...and you do not. So I’ll...I’ll need to ask you to leave.”

It was at this moment that Dougherty, his eyes cracking open and spitting blood, managed to gasp, “Nygma! Nygma, get help-!”

And the angel froze again. It was a total cessation of movement, wholly inhuman. Ásvaldr had been much the same once, but he had learned how humans were put off by the immortal ability to _stop and observe._

The angel cleared his throat. “Dougherty?” he asked.

Ásvaldr grinned and stepped aside, sweeping one blood slick hand as if presenting a prize. “Officer Thomas Dougherty,” he said grandly. “I’m afraid I must report that he has been working for the mob.” He tsked lightly. “Not honorable at all.”

The angel’s too-still eyes flicked to Ásvaldr’s hand. He blinked. 

The light dimmed.

 _Fascinating_ , the demon thought, and took a moment to take in the angel’s features.

Like most angels, he was tall, dark eyed, his face flawless and angular. Demons gained character from the Fall, but angels remained in their same form of too-perfect-perfection. 

_Inhuman_ , Ásvaldr thought again, and smirked. No angel would ever blend so well as he had into the society of the lord’s precious mortals. They’d know him in an instant, even without knowing him. 

“You’re torturing him,” the angel said. There was no emotion in his voice, or perhaps simply not enough. 

Ásvaldr laughed. “Yes,” he agreed. “And then I’m going to kill him.”

Dougherty coughed again, and struggled weakly against his constraints. “Nygma! Run! Get help! They’ll-”

Ásvaldr, never letting his eyes leave that mysterious, disappearing glow, sliced back once and very nearly severed the man’s vocal cords.

The angel flinched. 

But only once.

And then he said:

“You’ve been beating Miss Kringle,” in an eerily calm voice.

Dougherty’s response was a terrified gurgle. 

And then-

Ásvaldr saw the most beautiful, sinful, glorious sight of his long life.

Those wings, translucent and delicate, utterly pure-

Crackled, and bent, and a stream of black, like frost on glass, slithered across the feathers in a delicate, breathtaking pattern. 

Wonder surged in Ásvaldr’s chest. His own wings, invisible to his gaping, confused minions, shimmered in the reflection of the angel’s own: deep, shifting purple, and shafts of black shadow. 

“You heard me, Angel?” Ásvaldr asked, fascinated. “I’m going to kill him.”

The angel smiled.

It was not a...proper smile.

It was too wide, and hard, and his eyes remained opaque above them, but the frost of black shadow curled around itself on those beautiful, glasslike wings.

“Good,” the angel said. “It is only mercy for every woman he might ever know.” His eyes now, widened, a little too-much, a little wild.

“And I am a creature of mercy.”

Ásvaldr held out the knife, slick with blood. “Would you care to-”

The angel’s eyes closed, rapturous. “I can’t-”

_Ah yes, free will._

“Did your master tell you never to watch?” Ásvaldr knew temptation. He had wielded it as a weapon, and fallen to its power. He had driven humans to murder. 

He was a demon with free will, and he would not admit defeat. Not when it came to this glorious creature, this angel after the Fall. 

The angel’s eyes opened. They didn’t meet Ásvaldr’s. Instead, they met Dougherty’s. He smiled again, brittle. “No. Not in...so many words.”

And Ásvaldr laughed as he slit the useless human’s throat without turning - only watching the blood as it poured in the reflection of an angel’s eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I admit that I'm intrigued by these two, and have a number of ideas for Ed and his own special circumstances...the deadline caught up with me, but I might like to write some more?


End file.
